


Enemies Foreign and Domestic

by Peapods



Series: Phil Couslon is Mike Casper When it Suits Him [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), West Wing
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Special Agent Mike Casper has three phones. One of them technically doesn't belong to Mike Casper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enemies Foreign and Domestic

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks as always to Prollyjolly for encouraging my flights of insanity.

FBI Special Agent Mike Casper has three phones. One was his office phone, constantly calling him to his superior’s office or down to the labs. One was his cell, both personal and professional, where his dry cleaner could call and tell him he’s got three back orders sitting in the rotation. The third was not, precisely, Mike Casper’s.

“Coulson,” he answered crisply as he took a hot dog from a vendor.

“It’s Barton. Mission was a success. Wheels down is six thirty PM Saturday,” the familiar tones of his agent told him.

“We’ll debrief at the usual place.”

“You buying?”

“Don’t I always?” Phil asked with a small smile.

“Goodbye, Sir.”

He tucked the phone back into his pocket and wiped a hand over his sweaty brow. It was an ungodly hot DC summer and there was no shade to be found on the Mall. He ate his hot dog as he walked, headed back to the office. He usually wouldn’t go this far just for a hot dog, but he had been expecting the call from Barton and it was just good policy to be as far from the Hoover building as possible--while remaining in DC proper--while taking covert phone calls.

Three years before, Fury had taken Coulson aside and assigned him to a deep cover assignment so deep not even the President was to know. Thus Special Agent Mike Casper, late of the Philadelphia Field Office, had arrived in DC and made the acquaintance of Josh Lyman and later weaseled his way into a liaison position with the White House. All because three years ago, Josh Lyman and another few handfuls of Washington bureaucrats were subject to an electromagnetic event that may or may not have altered their body and brain chemistry. All because a Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division agent sent to question the event-goers had noticed Josh Lyman had a slight case of telekinesis.

_“I don’t think he was even aware of it. He was distracted, reaching for something and it just nudged itself into his hands.”_

Phil had had to make a lot of other friends too. Some easier said than done, but the most stubborn were easily swayed into a weekly poker game.

“Hey Mike! Mike!” he heard someone call and turned, used to responding to only that name here in DC.

“Josh! How are you?” The Deputy Chief of Staff was dressed in workout gear and was sweating profusely. He had obviously been jogging. Phil glanced over his shoulder and noted the presence of a discrete man in familiar running gear. Even four years later, even though Josh hadn’t been the intended target, the Bartlet Administration wasn’t ready to let their bulldog out of sight.

“All right, yourself?”

“Just getting some lunch.”

“All the way down here?”

“The good hot dog vendor is down here for the festival,” he said mildly. “Donna force you on a jog?”

He rolled his eyes. “And I’ve got an awful salad waiting for me at the office, no doubt. Working on anything interesting?”

Phil shrugged. “The usual. It’s been pretty quiet since Zoey.” That had been a tense situation, one he had been tempted to bring the Division into but had been forced to leave it to the more conventional methods.

The reminder made Josh frown, but he nodded. “Hey, you still have that poker game?”

Phil smiled, “Every Thursday at 8 if we can help it. Feel free to stop in. We’d love to take your money.”

“Maybe I’ll bring Ms. Fiderer so I can make you eat those words.” He started jogging in place. “I’ll give you a call.”

“Right.”

“See ya, Mike,” and the man took off.

*****

“Casper, just the man I needed to see,” AD Noland said as he stepped into the break room. Noland was a tall, spry man of about fifty who had joined the FBI for the sole reason of promotion and the power that went with it. He had no real investigative skill, but enough administrative skill that he had somehow managed to fly under the radar into an Assistant Director position.

“Sir, what I can do for you?” Phil asked mildly, stirring his weak coffee.

“Walk with me.” They walked until they were at Ollie’s Trolley and Noland was buying them both burgers and fries.

“I like you, Mike. You get the job done, no muss, no fuss and no time for praise.” He shook his head. “I get too many show-boaters under my command and not enough competence between them to change the filter in the coffee maker.”

“Thank you, sir,” Phil said, having the facetious thought that he should check his burger for strings before taking a bite.

They settled into a booth and ate mostly in silence until all that was left were a few burnt fries and greasy wrappers.

“Going back to what I was saying, I have about as many people I can trust as I’ve got competent people. I think you could be both.”

“Sir, what precisely are you getting at here?” Phil finally asked, tired of the man dancing around the subject.

“All right, thing is, I got some buddies at the CIA. Best guys in the damn field, good guys. They’ve had ops running in Burma for fucking years, trying to get their hands on this one guy.”

Phil felt something tighten in his gut. A man of his particular talents did not reach his level of clearance without having a pretty reliable gut instinct and his was roiling with unease.

“Anyway, and this is strictly off the record, so to speak, but they finally got a bead on this guy. They’re about five minutes from a capture and the guy is fucking sniped. With an _arrow_ for Christ’s sake. ‘Course afterward, the thing explodes and there’s no arrow to do any work on, but we know who it was.”

Alarm bells were ringing in Phil’s head.

“Guy’s never been spotted, but no one makes those kinds of shots. No one uses _arrows_. ‘Cept this guy.” Noland pulled a photo from his jacket pocket and Phil didn’t even have to look to see Clint Barton strolling casually down a street in civvies and grinning at Sitwell.

Phil was going to make sure Sitwell had to do all his paperwork for three months for this kind of carelessness. Barton would have to do his own for at least a year.

“Anyway, Mike, I’ve seen your record, if anyone can find this guy and fucking take him out, it’s you.”

Phil licked his bottom lip, “Sir, are you suggesting I... perform an unauthorized wet operation?”

Noland smiled, “Sound just like my boys at the Company. Yeah, Casper, that’s about that size of it.”

*****

“I need an extraction,” he said when Fury picked up the phone.

The other man cursed. “Are you compromised?”

“No, but,” he huffed in rare frustration, the request still galling. “They’ve asked me to do something I can’t do,” he continued quietly.

The other side of the line was silent for a moment. “We should meet. The Mall, 8 on Saturday.”

“I’ve got my debrief with Barton around then,” he told him. Barton, who had a target on his back and didn’t even know it.

“Fine, meet me after.”

“Yes, sir.”

He ended the call and sat down at the kitchen table. Only the FBI Director knew who he was, had been relieved to have someone more qualified than his most qualified agent to handle the precarious White House tasks. But his own superior had no idea. Had Coulson been a regular agent, he couldn’t even begin to imagine the untenable position he’d be in.

As it was, he was faced with only one option. Clint Barton was more valuable than three Vance Nolands. The Division would see that Noland and those associated with Burma--and any other op Clint had worked--would be expertly discredited and terminated. And since Nick Fury had ordered the mission that had Barton in trouble, Phil knew he’d get what he wanted.

*****

He told Josh, that first time in the White House, that he wouldn’t be in charge of the task force if he wasn’t chained to his desk on medical orders. What he didn’t tell Josh was that three months before he had taken a katana to the femoral artery and might have bled out if one Clint Barton--newly minted Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division (and they really needed a new name) agent and master marksman--hadn’t been there to jam a knee into his leg with a promise to do all his backlog paperwork if Coulson would _“just stay the fuck alive!”_

Phil’s training and position in the Division left him in the enviable position of never having to handle junior agents or assets unless specifically requested to by Fury, or by specifically requesting himself. But such had not always been the case which explained how a still-kind-of-a-kid-even-if-he-was-twenty-five had been shoved into his lap. But perhaps it had been his handling of a man now considered one of their best assets that had given Phil that position. Chicken or egg?

Clint hadn’t been like any other junior agent. His skills were world-renowned and he was confident in them for good reason. Most kids showed up from the Marines or the C.I.A. or wherever with the woeful delusion that they were hot shit. Not Clint. He had been quiet and focused and maybe a little insecure, but not about his bow and not about his marks. That was never the part that needed handling.

“Reminiscing, old man?” Clint rasped as he dropped onto the seat next to Phil. The pub was a small one, but with pretty decent food and beer and in the heart of Foggy Bottom so the walk to the Mall later wouldn’t be terrible.

“Wondering why I didn’t do what my mother told me and become a teacher,” Phil told him. “Report, Agent.”

Clint debriefed simply, with little explanation of his actions, letting the picture form and letting Phil judge for himself. They paused only briefly to talk about the Redskins team this year--when the waiter came for their orders.

“Good work, Barton. You’ve already been cleared by Medical?” He asked, noticing the faint grimace when Clint reached for his napkin on the floor.

“Yeah, sore ribs,” he explained. “Looks like I need to take up kayaking as regular training if that sort of situation is going to be showing up more often.” Phil nodded, making a mental note to have medical look for bruises. Kayaking was their code word for an ass-beating that had them longing for the good drugs.

Their easy banter continued until four men in black suits entered the restaurant and began sweeping. They spoke into their wrists and a young woman appeared at the door in short order with a few friends.

“Damn,” Phil whispered.

“What--”

“Finish your beer and food, quickly,” Phil said, knocking back the dregs of his beer and pushing aside his fries. Clint stuffed the end of a sandwich messily into his mouth while Phil signaled for the check. All the while he kept up a silent mantra of “please, don’t let her recognize me.”

As they began to leave, Phil tried to have Clint walk on his other side, but it was no use.

“Agent Casper!” her voice called. He didn’t let his grimace show as he halted and let a small smile onto his face.

“Miss Bartlet, good to see you,” he said mildly.

“It’s Zoey, sir.”

“Then, please, call me Mike. How are you doing?”

She smiled a little uncertainly. “It’s daunting some days, others it’s like nothing happened. I’m coping.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said sincerely.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you,” she said, looking at Clint obviously expecting an introduction. Phil would need to have a talk with the agent about discrete exits, but he smiled and let the embarrassment show.

“Oh, um, Clint Barton, my,” he cleared his throat. “Boyfriend.”

If that pronouncement surprised Clint, he thankfully didn’t show it.

“Clint, this is Zoey Bartlet, the President’s youngest.”

“I don’t live under a rock, _Mike_ , I know who she is,” he said before smiling charmingly. “Miss Bartlet, it’s a pleasure.”

“Please, call me Zoey, Clint?”

He nodded and smiled.

“Guess you won’t be picking yourself out a daughter after all,” she laughed good-naturedly and Phil actually genuinely chuckled. They exchanged a few more pleasantries, including an amusing conversation about what exactly it was Clint did for a living before they were able to escape.

Clint didn’t last until the end of the sidewalk before laughing so hard he had to hold himself up on a railing.

“Something you find amusing, Agent?” Phil asked mildly.

“Boyfriend was the best you could come up with?”

“I didn’t think she’d buy son or nephew.”

“‘Co-worker’ was too much of a stretch for you?”

“Sharing a meal, alone, too many blocks from Headquarters?”

“I doubt she would put that much thought into it.”

“Never doubt the deductive powers of the Bartlets, male or female,” Phil said as they rounded the corner and started up toward Constitution.

As they approached the park area, Phil stopped and slowed Clint with a hand on his arm. He pulled the man close, turned him so the three suits, definitely not Secret Service, behind him couldn’t see Clint’s face, put his hands on Clint’s shoulders, pulled him toward the wall.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said softly, letting a smile come to his face.

“What’s up?” Clint asked, easy and casual even as his eyes scanned the area. He saw the suits but didn’t stiffen, just crowded Phil closer to the wall, hands coming up to bracket his waist. “How long?”

“Since the restaurant, probably,” Phil said, letting his thumbs caress the knobs behind Clint’s ears.

“What’s going on?” Clint mouthed at the stubble near Phil’s ear.

“My superior at the FBI has asked me to take you out. You assassinated one of the CIA’s targets. Rogue agents,” Phil explained, one hand creeping back and up into Clint’s hair.

“Not a good idea, letting me in on the plan,” Clint sassed. Phil let out a shaky breath as Clint took the lobe of his right ear in his teeth, letting his tongue flick it gently. They were both still watching the suits as they tried to look natural in the dying light.

“We’ll walk to the park. Get a cab and get to New York. Keep an eye out. Hill will meet you at the airport and barring any attacks between here and there, you should get to base safely.”

Clint pulled back, staring intensely, before one hand flew up and pulled Phil into a scorching kiss. He felt like burning and drowning, but one eye was fixed on the suits. They parted and laughed, looking for all the world like a couple in love. Clint stepped back and took his hand and they continued on.

Clint left him at the entrance to the park, grabbing a cab that would take him to another cab that would drop him back at Reagan for his flight back to New York. Phil spared a wave for his charge and made his way into the park.

Director Fury, sans leather jacket, waited for him near the Washington Monument. In the dusky night, light still visible on the horizon, one might have mistaken him for a homeless vet. Phil sat beside him with a sigh.

“What could they have asked you to do that would shake my best agent?” Fury asked. They didn’t look at one another only watched the lingering tourists who wanted nighttime pictures of DC from the tallest structure in the city.

Phil gave him the whole story. Fury looked like he wanted to go kick ass and take names, but then, Phil was used to that particular expression. Their organization was still in its infancy compared to the CIA and FBI, but Fury had made sure that theirs was an organization free of political pressure, influence, and fuckwads looking to get ahead. His words.

“You could just... go to the Director, let him know, let him take care of it,” Fury suggested, looking as if he’d rather pull out his own teeth with a pair of tweezers.

“Sir, I think you know--”

“Yeah, yeah, just giving lip service. What about Lyman?”

“He hasn’t had an incident since that I’ve been able to discern and neither has anyone else. I think it was just residual energy. Used up.”

Fury pulled a hand over his face and sat back in a sprawl.

“All right. Extraction within a week. Cut your ties. We’ll keep Barton on base in the meantime.”

“Thank you, Director.”

“Damn, least I’ll have my one good eye back.”

*****

Seven Years Later...

Phil could not have said what woke him. It was not the steady beeping to his right nor the tightness in his chest that promised pain when the good drugs wore off. His breath came a little short, but it was nice to surface from unconsciousness given that he had never expected to again. He swallowed and allowed his eyes to flutter open. He nearly shot to his feet at the sight, only a gentle hand on his shoulder kept him down.

“Mr. President!” he rasped.

“Settle down, son, or you’ll ruin all the good work those doctors did,” Bartlet said with a smile. “Some fine work your boys did back there, Phil. You should be proud.”

Phil didn’t know what to say and his confusion at Bartlet’s easy acceptance of who he really was and what he really did must have shown.

“I know some people,” Bartlet hand-waved and behind him, through the glass, Phil could see Captain Rogers, smiling.

“Thank you, sir,” was all he could say.

“Ballsy thing you did, going up against a demi-god by yourself.”

“It had to be done.”

“No, it didn’t,” Bartlet said in that way that said _“I’m right and you’re wrong but it’s okay for you to be wrong because I’m smarter than you.”_ “You proved that heroism doesn’t come with a snazzy uniform and fun toys.”

“I had a pretty cool toy,” Phil pointed out.

Bartlet pinned him with a paternal look. “An old proverb says it’s not the glittering weapon fights the fight, but rather the hero’s heart.”

Phil could feel himself blush. “Sir,” he said, speechless.

“Your faith in them inspired faith in you and in humanity.” Bartlet stood. “You’re a good man, Phil Coulson.”

And with that, the former President left the room, acknowledging Captain Rogers snapped salute with a nod.

Phil waited until he couldn’t see the man to say, “You can come down now.”

A panel slid away and Clint dropped silently next to Phil’s bed. He was unshaven and sported a pair of purple eyes that screamed about sleepless nights, but he was smiling.

“You’re okay?” Phil whispered, voice giving away under the wave of fondness he felt for this man.

“Tasha cognitively recalibrated the crazy out of me,” Clint said, resting a buttock on the bed and leaning over Phil, one hand cupping his hip, the other resting on Phil’s own hand. “Didn’t even tell me you were hurt until we’d kicked all the ass and took all the names.”

Phil’s mouth quirked in what he hoped was some semblance of a smile.

“So, I’m pretty sure he’d have offered you another daughter if they weren’t all married now,” Clint teased.

Phil’s hand curled a little, grasping onto Clint’s fingers.

“Too bad, got a husband of my own.”

Clint’s smile probably could have broken his face. He fought to rein it in before laying a brief kiss on Phil’s lips.

“Phil,” he said, “I’d love you even if you were named Mike, wore suits off the rack, and only, you know, saved the president’s daughter and a hundred lives, instead of helped save the world from aliens.”

And though it almost hurt more than being stabbed, Phil let himself laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> It needed to be done. Mike Casper has Phil Coulson's competence written all over him.


End file.
